The order for the wedding-cake which had been a cause of such tribulation to the girls had come through Mrs. Lennox for a young cousin of her husband’s in whose marriage she was much interested. The order consisted of a bride’s cake, a round wedding-cake, two hundred boxes and in addition some thirty dozen small assorted cakes to be served with the supper. The bride’s mother had given the girls a fruit-cake recipe which had been many years in her family and had asked them to make the cake at least a month before the wedding that it might “age,” as the saying is. Hours easily counting into days had gone into the preparation of the fruit alone for this large order before the work of putting the cake together began; and then to make the twenty loaves, each of which when done resembled in size a two-quart brick of ice-cream, it was necessary to mix and cook the dough in installments. But as Julie told Dr. Ware, that was as child’s play to the intricacies of the frosting and the catastrophe that ensued; and the nervous as well as the physical strain of that, coming on top of all the rest of the work which the order entailed, told severely on the girls, especially Julie, though she was up with Hester at six the next morning packing the boxes into the wooden case which was to take the cake to its destination.

The round loaf over which Julie had expended so much anxious thought was wrapped in sheet after sheet of cotton wadding to protect the elaborate frosting from breaking, and resembled when laid in its box a small-sized snow drift. Hester printed “handle with care” in so many places on the wooden box cover that the expressman when he came could with difficulty distinguish the address; while Bridget cautioned him with such emphasis to carry it “like it wuz a baby, shure,” that the man finally turned on her and asked if she thought he played football with his packages. It was an intense relief to them all when he had carried down the boxes and driven away, though their suspense would not really end until they learned of its safe arrival in the country town twenty miles away. And that they would know that same afternoon, for the mother of the bride had asked them to the wedding and Mrs. Lennox had been most urgent in insisting upon their going out with her, just, as she put it, for a “little country spree.”

Mrs. Lennox had arranged a charming program whereby the girls should be of the party she and Mr. Lennox were to take out on their coach, but as the morning wore on and Julie found each hour’s work more difficult she finally told Hester she felt too tired to consider such an expedition and should remain at home. It was so unusual for Julie to admit fatigue that Hester felt alarmed and attempted to order her immediately to bed, saying she and Bridget could easily get through the rest and she should not go to the wedding without her. But Julie insisted, not only in working on into the afternoon when the orders for the day were at last completed, but in persuading Hester to consent to go to the wedding—a consent reluctantly given, for she was loath to go off without her sister. Having gained it, however, Julie dispatched a note to Mrs. Lennox begging to be excused from the party and turned her attention to helping Hester get ready when their work was done.

Whereas, owing to her delicate constitution, Julie’s fatigue usually showed itself in complete physical exhaustion, Hester’s frequently took the form of intense mental excitement, when the chords of her buoyant nature were strung to their highest pitch. At such times she talked incessantly, laughed immoderately and was so restless that Julie always threatened to tie a string to her. She was in such a mood this afternoon, laughing and capering about, performing such ridiculous antics that Peter Snooks, who aided and abetted these moods, was barking with joy while Julie despaired of ever getting her clothed, not to mention restoring her to her right mind.

“You are a darling to help me but I don’t love you at all for making me go when you are too ill to budge. I’ve a good notion not to mind you, anyway! Why should I? I’m bigger ’an you!” dancing about on her toes to increase her height, which possibly measured some two inches more than her sister’s.

Julie caught her on the fly and thrust a dress skirt over her head, hooking it together without loss of time. “I’m going to have a nice quiet rest with Daddy,” she said, “and will be all right when you come home. I want to hear all about the wedding and whether the cake got there and everything, so do go, there’s a dear girl, and you’ll have a beautiful drive and a good time into the bargain.”

“And feel like a pig because you are not there. That will be pleasant, won’t it! Is that the doorbell? Do peek out the window like a dear and see if the coach is there.”

Julie did as she was requested and reported the arrival of the coach just as Bridget appeared and announced that Mrs. Lennox had sent Mr. Landor up to ask if she were ready.

“Do you suppose he is going?” whispered Hester. “Oh! Julie dear, can’t you go in and see him?”

“Not much! Here are your gloves and have you got a handkerchief? Can’t find one? Never mind, here is one of mine. Now run along and kiss Daddy and hurry—it is dreadful to keep people waiting. You look as fresh as a lark but don’t talk yourself black in the face,” admonishingly. “Remember ‘silence is golden,’” she called out when she had recovered her breath from Hester’s parting hug.

She heard Mr. Landor expressing regret that the elder Miss Dale was not to be of the party and then she heard nothing more; but in most plebeian fashion she and Bridget and Peter Snooks peeped out of the window watching their departure, as did also Jack from the floor beneath. They saw Mr. Landor help her up to the box seat of the coach beside Mr. Lennox and sent down answering smiles to the parting wave of her hand.

“Belikes I bet the young gentleman’s disappointed he ain’t got her hisself,” commented Bridget. “She’s the prettiest of the whole lot!”

“Didn’t she look lovely, Bridget! She always does when she is so excited.”

“It’s a lot more excited she’ll be when she gets back an’ finds you no better, Miss Julie, so I’m just goin’ to put you to bed. You do look in a way as I don’t like, an’ small wonder, the way you whip your poor frail little body along to do the work of ten!”

“Nonsense, Bridget! I am not frail, you must not talk that way. I am just tired out to-day and I couldn’t brace up and be agreeable to people—I don’t want to be agreeable—I want to be cross, so I advise you to keep out of the way.”

Bridget acted upon this suggestion by picking her up in her great muscular arms and marching into her bedroom. There laying her down she left to brew her a cup of tea—faithful Bridget’s panacea for every woe. Having returned and administered this she proceeded to undress her.

“I was going to lie down with Daddy,” expostulated Julie feebly.

“You’ll do nothin’ of the sort,” commanded Bridget. “You ain’t fit to be seen with that look in your face. I’m goin’ to tuck you into bed an’ darken the room an’ we’ll see what sleep’ll do for yez.”

As if this petting were more than she could bear, Julie buried her head in the pillow with a movement that made the woman suspicious.

“What is it, darlint?” she cried, smoothing her hair. “Can’t you tell your old Bridget about it?”

“Nothing,” said a muffled voice.

“Shure it’s rest yez want, darlint. I seen how yez kep’ up all day so Miss Hester’d not be after knowin’ how dead beat yez wuz an’ now ye’ve clean gone all to pieces. Jus’ cry it all out dearie, an’ it’s like a new person you’ll be. ’Taint no small wonder yer wore out, with the worryin’ an’ frettin’ that goes on inside yer an’ always a cheery smile outside. Yer old Bridget knows! And may the blessed saints take yez out of this business before yez drop dead in yer tracks, sez I, every night on my knees—an’ I don’t care who’s after knowin’ it!” She gave the girl a loving motherly kiss and thus encouraged Julie cried her heart out on her shoulder.

This was an unusual proceeding, for Julie seldom cried in these days. She had learned when her emotions threatened to overcome her to stiffen her chin and swallow hard, hard, hard,—until the tears were forced back and only a drawn look about the mouth told of the battle royal. She valued each victory, however trifling, for tears are weakening and self-control is a mighty weapon in the equipment of a soldier. To-day she was weak bodily and the petting utterly unnerved her, so that she cried until she could cry no longer and finally fell asleep from sheer exhaustion.

When she awoke it was with a confused sense that it must be the middle of the night and that something was wrong, for Bridget stood over her.

“Are yez wakin’? That’s right, dearie. You’ve bin sleepin’ these two hours an’ there’s a gentleman to see yez.”

“What?” dazedly, rubbing her eyes.

“A gentleman to see yez—he didn’t give no name.”

“Probably he has come to give an order. Couldn’t you look after him, Bridget?”

“No, miss,” with an air of suppressed excitement, “his business is particular with you. Go bathe your face, Miss Julie, an’ I’ll have you dressed in a jiffy.”

“Well, I am a pretty looking object,” commented the girl with a glance in the mirror as Bridget let some light into the room.

“Never you mind, you’re feelin’ much better an’ you souse your eyes good with hot water—they’ll look natural enough—an’ it’s gettin’ kinder twilight in the parlor now anyhow,” consolingly.

“What is the matter with you, Bridget, are you daft?” seeing her bring forth from the closet a French gown she had never worn in Radnor. “You know I never would put on such a thing to go in to see a customer. Get me a fresh shirt waist like the old dear you are.”

“Oh! Miss Julie, just this once, please,” in such a coaxing tone that Julie found it hard to refuse her but she simply said:

“I couldn’t, Bridget, not even to please you,” and checked her inclination to smile at the vicious manner in which Bridget got out a shirt-waist and jabbed in the studs and cuff-buttons.

Immensely refreshed by her nap she went down the hall with a light heart and entered the little sitting-room to be greeted by a stranger who eagerly seized both her hands and cried:

“Mademoiselle, Mademoiselle, this is indeed a joy to find you!”

At the sound of his voice she trembled from head to foot and endeavored to withdraw her hands but he held them in a firm clasp and led her over to the window.

“I want the light to shine on your face, Mademoiselle, as it did in sunny California. Am I too bold—have I startled you?”

Still she did not speak and he dropped her hands as moving back a little he said penitently, “Forgive me, I am rough and have frightened you. May I sit down, Mademoiselle?”

She dropped into the nearest chair and waved him to another as she said: “I did not expect you here, Monsieur GrÉmond.”

“Not expect me! Did you not know I was in Radnor?”

“Oh! yes,” laughing a little for she was beginning to recover herself, “but the two are not synonymous.”

“You are jesting, Mademoiselle. Surely you know—you must know that only one thing would bring me to this country as soon as I came out of the wilderness.” There was a world of meaning in his eyes, but Julie chose to ignore it.

“Your friendship with Mr. Renshawe has been of long standing, has it not?” she asked evasively.

“Oh! Mademoiselle Julie, it was not Renshawe—do not hold me aloof—have you forgotten the dear old California days?”

“One might have been led to suppose you had,” she said quietly, “you disappeared so suddenly and—”

“But I wrote,” he interrupted, “and though you never replied I meant always to return when I had accomplished something. Did you not feel that instinctively, Mademoiselle? Many things have happened to me since then and to you, also, your guardian said.”

“My guardian?” she repeated. “Do you mean Dr. Ware?”

“He gave me permission to call and said you might have many things to say to me,” looking at her rather perplexedly. “Will you tell me all about it, Mademoiselle?”

“Tell you,” she cried springing up and confronting him, “tell you as if it were a book I were reading all the sorrow and wretchedness and misery of these past eight months! No, a thousand times no! It would not interest you!” She threw back her head defiantly. “Why,” she demanded fiercely, “did you find us out? We have no part in the world to which you belong! Could you not know that to see you would bring back the past, intensify the contrast between then and now—hurt us like the thrust of a sword? Oh! how could you come?”

“I came because I—” and then breaking off suddenly he said gravely, “If you think your affairs are of no interest to me you would perhaps prefer that I ask no questions, even though I do not understand.”

“Oh! I did not mean to be rude,” she exclaimed, her burst of resentment over, “how could you understand and how can I explain? Dear Daddy is enduring a living death—everything is changed—we are professional caterers—working women—you will not begin to comprehend that and no doubt it shocks you. The dignity of labor is not a popular theme on the other side!”

“Mademoiselle, have you only unkind things to say to me—me, who would have given my life to have averted them or helped you through all this? You do not seem to comprehend that I love you—love you—have journeyed out to Los Angeles and back to find you and now,”—he drew in his breath, “ah! now I never mean to let you go.” He took a step toward her but she eluded him, standing well back in the room where he could not see how her lips trembled as she said:

“You must not talk to me like this; I—I cannot bear it. I am all unstrung to-day and you startle me with your calm air of taking things for granted.”

“Do I, chÉrie?” tenderly. “But you see I love you and you are going to love me, too.”

“No,” she replied, drawing still further back, “no, Monsieur GrÉmond, I am not.”

Something unflinching about the girl’s quiet tone made the man say beseechingly, “Ah! Mademoiselle Julie, do not kill me!”

“Kill you? You never thought whether you would kill me or not, did you, when you almost taught me to love you in those old days and then rode away? Many a man does that, expecting a girl to take everything for granted and receive him with open arms when he returns. And many a girl waits and waits, eating her heart out meanwhile. But I am not that kind, Monsieur!”

“Oh, Mademoiselle!”

“I was very fond of you—so fond that when I knew you were in town I wondered whether I cared to see you—wondered whether I would have loved you had you loved me and last night I thought perhaps I should see you at the Wares’; but we did not go, and now you come to me and at the first sight of you I know it is not love—could never have been love under any circumstances!”

“Are you sure you know what love is, Mademoiselle?” and seeing the color spread in a crimson wave over her face he cried, “Some one has stolen you away from me! Tell me, is it not true?”

“What right have you to ask questions?” she demanded, angered by his assumption of authority. And then more quietly, “We must not quarrel, Monsieur, we have been altogether too good friends for that. I want to tell you that we are interested in your explorations and how proud we are to know that so many of your plans have been accomplished.”

“It is nothing to me now.”

“Fie, Monsieur! Are you going to cry baby because you can’t have the world all your way?”

“You are all my world.”

Julie had heard this from other men under similar conditions, and though she believed his disappointment to be genuinely bitter she knew that life could still hold out some hope even in the face of unrequited love. But how make him see it her way? In a moment she said:

“I am only a girl, Monsieur GrÉmond, but I think you want me to respect you, don’t you, and I certainly shall not be apt to if you are going to be vanquished right before my very eyes.”

“What a strange girl you are, Mademoiselle,” he said, roused to a critical survey of her. “Most girls like their lovers to be inconsolable, but you threaten me with everlasting disgrace for refusing to be consoled. I don’t understand it.”

“No, you would not understand me, ever,” said Julie cheerfully, glad to have roused him at last. “You must go back to France and marry some nice sweet little thing who will perfectly adore you and you’ll be ‘happy ever after,’ as the story books say.”

“I wish you would not dispose of me in such an off-hand fashion,” aggrievedly. “I am tempted to kidnap you and carry you off this moment to the steamer. She sails in the morning. Oh! couldn’t you do it, ma petite?”

The vehemence of his tone really startled Julie who laughed to herself afterward as she remembered how she had shrank back in her corner as if she expected him to snatch her up bodily.

“Leave Hester,” she cried aghast, “and Daddy and Bridget—and Peter Snooks and—and every-body to go away with you? Monsieur GrÉmond, you must be mad.”

“Then you do not know what love is.” He rose and came over to her. “Will you put your hands in mine, Mademoiselle? I am going—good-by. I suppose I have been a selfish brute to dwell altogether on my own troubles and not sympathize with yours, but the truth is I am knocked out. I undoubtedly, as you say, took too much for granted.”

“Do not put us out of your life altogether,” said Julie gently. “Some day perhaps you will really care for my interest and respect and all the things I would gladly give you if you would have them.”

“If you put it that way, perhaps—but it seems to me there is only one thing,” he said disconsolately.

“Then you are not half the man I take you to be!”

“I will be,” asserted GrÉmond, his better nature responding to this rebuke. “It is good at least to have been with you. Good-by, Mademoiselle, good-by.”

For some time after he had gone Julie sat with closed lids trying to forget the last look of his eyes into hers, so persistently did it haunt her; but within her heart surged a feeling of gratitude that there is an all-wise Providence who shapes our ends.